


he who gets to watch you

by xpityx



Series: catullus 51 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 11:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19462810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: Aziraphale would have preferred Okinawa: dotted with turtle-back tombs and steeped in history. However Crowley had been insistent on Tokyo and, well, it turned out that saying yes to Crowley was such a delight that he felt the need to do it over and over again.





	he who gets to watch you

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to SlumberousTrash for the speedy beta. I'm not entirely sure if this is finished or not but hey.

  


Aziraphale would have preferred Okinawa: dotted with turtle-back tombs and steeped in history. However Crowley had been insistent on Tokyo and, well, it turned out that saying yes to Crowley was such a delight that he felt the need to do it over and over again. 

He watched Crowley as he fussed with his hair in the mirror. Despite being a five star hotel the bathroom was a little on the small side so Aziraphale stood in the doorway, well out of the reach of Crowley’s flailing elbows.

“Would you please stop pretending you use pomade to get the required lift and miracle it into place so we can leave?” 

Crowley huffed. “I do not use miracles _on my hair_ , Angel.”

Aziraphale let his silence convey his disbelief.

“Fine! Fine, just this once, but only because you’re pretty.” 

Crowley gestured at his hair, which instantly perked up from it’s sad droop. He sauntered past Aziraphale, copping a feel on his way out with all the glee of a deranged cupid. It was more symbolic than a sincere effort as neither of them had to react to such _stimulation_ unless they wished to. Crowley seemed pleased with himself though, adding a little more sway to his walk as they made their way out of the hotel and to the nearest metro station. 

Although the taxis with their self-opening doors and white-gloved drivers were a delight, they also cost a small fortune. They had both had ample opportunity to invest wisely over the years but, cut off from their monthly stipend as they were, 9,000 yen to get from one side of the city to another would be better spent on a decent bottle of sake. Also with excellent wifi even on the deepest lines, Crowley could continue to insult Twitter users to his heart’s content. 

They got off at Nakano: the heat of the sun brutal even as evening waned. As supernatural beings they had built in air-conditioning, but in the interest of not standing out _too_ much, Aziraphale wore a linen suit and Crowley had stripped down to his t-shirt. He had his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his ludicrously tight jeans, and the sharp arcs of his wrists were almost too beautiful to look at.

Tokyo was an unknowable city in its ever-changing vastness—even to beings such as he and Crowley. There would forever be a tiny eatery in a sub basement to discover, serving seared beef tongue that melted in the mouth, or a newly opened restaurant on the top floor of a skyscraper; massive, artificial floral arrangements standing tall in the air conditioned interior. 

Aziraphale had no idea how Crowley had found this particular restaurant; it was a tiny, eight-seater bar wrapped around a kitchen, on the third floor of a mall that seemed to sell nothing but figurines and maid outfits. You ate what you were given and there was a choice of tea, beer or water to drink. Aziraphale opted for the tea, which was poured out of an orange plastic beaker into an equally plastic cup. Aziraphale stared at it, wondering if anyone would notice if he turned it into a good Juyondai sake. 

“No, Angel,” Crowley murmured, as he split his disposable chopsticks in two. 

The food was stunning. The pickles alone were worth sonnets in their name. The noodles were the perfect texture: glutinous with the smallest amount of bite to them. 

“Oh, _Crowley,_ ” he said, after his first mouthful. Crowley didn’t reply, but his shoulders relaxed a little as he ate.

Aziraphale struck up a conversation with the young couple who were squeezed in next to them. After the obligatory comments on the weather— _it’s hot, isn't it? Yes, very. I heard it will be hot tomorrow as well. Is that so?_ —and the equally important ritual of denying that his (absolutely fluent) Japanese was worthy of being spoken, they settled into a nice conversation about the upcoming fireworks festival. He didn’t think Crowley would have been interested—far too many people, and for once the usually reticent Tokyoites would be eager to speak to strangers. Even strangers as strange as them. However once Aziraphale had finished both eating and complementing the meal, Crowley pointed out that they were only a few days away from one of the smaller festivals. Smaller being a relative term of course, as the biggest attracted crowds of close to a million people. 

“Shall we go? You know how much I like food stalls,” Aziraphale suggested, happy to take on the role of instigator so that Crowley wasn’t forced to admit he liked something out loud. 

Crowley gave a pleased sort of shrug, which Aziraphale took to be a yes. 

They had succumbed to the call of an air conditioned taxi to take them to Yoyogi park, which was remarkably peaceful for being in the middle of the city. It was entirely possible that one _could_ hear the traffic from where they were, but any and all noise was effectively drowned out by the cicadas. He was tempted to ask if the screaming tree bugs had been a demonic-influenced invention, but decided that that might ruin the mood. 

“I came here after the whole Flood thing you know,” Crowley said, apparently less worried than Aziraphale of disturbing their equilibrium. 

“Did you?” Aziraphale didn’t have to feign surprise. It was usually a taboo topic between them.

“Yeah,” Crowley continued, “funny people. They made these beautiful iron bells—just amazing—but it apparently occurred to no-one that they might make farming equipment out of the same material until about two hundred years later.” 

“Sometimes beauty is its own purpose, its own reward.”

Crowley looked at him sharply, ever wary of compliments, but Aziraphale smiled benignly at him and he went back to admiring the loud trees. 

“Were you here that whole time, my dear?”

“Yeah.”

Once they’d reached the temple itself, Crowley added, “Where were you?” 

“Tidying up,” Aziraphale replied shortly.

Crowley nodded and went back to looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. This would be one of the reasons they avoided the topic. 

There was something to be said about evil committed by those who _knew_ what they did was wrong, versus those who committed unspeakable acts because they knew what they did was right. It had taken him a long time to understand the difference—too long, perhaps—and it had only truly become clear as viewed through the prism of his love for Crowley: for all the terrors of Hell, Aziraphale knew that he could never let Heaven and all their righteousness get their hands on Crowley. From there it had only been a short step to understanding what terror Angels had become.

He wished dearly to know what Crowley was thinking. Perhaps that he had made a mistake in putting his faith in Aziraphale, or he was wishing he had not shared something of his past. Perhaps he was simply thinking of all the possibility of amazement that had been drowned under those rising tides. 

  
  
  
  


They had kept their silence all the way back to the hotel, where Crowley had thrown himself on the bed and some tension had seeped out of him. Aziraphale was pleased, though he would love to learn what specifically it was that had allowed Crowley to relax.

“Is this the same bed as when we arrived?” Crowley asked, once he had changed into something more suitable for sleeping and was once again back on the bed.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied, keeping his back to the room. Crowley had a frankly unnerving instinct for when he was lying.

“No it’s not. It smells different. Did you change the _entire bed_ , you old fusspot?”

“Look, it’s not important. And I thought you were tired anyway.”

Crowley rolled off the bed and came over to where Aziraphale was undressing, folding what needed to be folded and hanging up what needed to by hung up. He sat down on a low stool next to where Aziraphale stood, his nightgown riding up to mid-thigh as he did so.

“Angel,” he said.

Aziraphale hung up his jacket, pulling it straight on the hanger before turning to look at Crowley. He forwent answering his implicit question to trace his nose with a finger, to put his thumbs over the arches of his cheekbones. Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut.

“In all honesty, my dear, I could not stand the thought of all those others, all their skin and cells, mixing with your own.”

He put a hand gently over Crowley’s throat, just in time to feel him swallow heavily. Then, kneeling down between Crowley’s legs, he pushed his nightgown further up his legs and lay a kiss on the inside of one thigh. Crowley, eyes still closed, spread his legs to accommodate him. 

There was something holy in this—though he took care to have the thought quietly—in communicating skin to skin. He took Crowley’s hands in his own and used his throat to do the work, moving in a way that was not natural to humans but, well, in a Time of Need such as this he thought allowances should be made. Crowley shuddered and moaned, his hips moving in tiny aborted thrusts. He gripped Aziraphale’s hands tightly as he came, breathing out something that might have been a curse, might have been an abbreviated version of Aziraphale’s name. Aziraphale swallowed, then licked his lips to chase the taste before standing, a little less steady than he’d have liked. 

Crowley lay back in the chair, eyes unfocused and legs akimbo. Aziraphale smiled at the sight before continuing to remove his own clothing. All creatures looked a little ridiculous naked, whether they had dangly bits or squishy bits or something in between. He had discovered a paritaily to flannel pajamas since Crowley had introduced him to the idea of a regular sleeping pattern, but tonight he felt that he should make use of the new bed and remain naked. 

“Come on, my love,” he said, hauling Crowley to his feet, stripping him of his nightshirt and cleaning him up with a gesture. 

Crowley blinked double eyelids at him before following him to bed. He curled up on his side, his back to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale obligingly took his place behind him, his hand over his heart. 

  


It had been a slow walk from the station to the river bank, made slower by Aziraphale’s need to sample every second food stand they passed. Crowley had seemed happy enough with the delay, inscrutable behind his sunglasses while Aziraphale chatted away with the stall owners. 

The Arakawa river flowed nearby, its sound lost to the hum of the mass of humanity that sat on its banks: eating and laughing and waiting together. Picnic blankets were laid carefully next to each other, leaving narrow thoroughfares for shoes to be put and people to walk. Most had been there since the afternoon, staking out the best spot as more and more people arrived. Men in hi-viz vests and loudspeakers attempted to direct people to the least crowded spots, and the thick heat of the summer evening lay over everything.

Crowley weaved in and out of it all, at least a head taller than everyone around him, while Aziraphale followed at a more sedate pace. By the time he caught up, Crowley had found a miraculously free patch of grass to fold out his equally miraculous picnic blanket. It was solid black, but Aziraphale twitched a finger and it shivered into Hello Kitty pinkness. 

The look Crowley threw him was clear despite the dark glasses, and Aziraphale twinkled at him as at least two of their neighbours commented on the cuteness of it. They sat and Aziraphale began unpacking the various foodstuffs he had picked up on their way: meat skewers, sticky with thick, sweet soy sauce, baby pink rice cakes dusted with cornstarch, and two bottles of mineral water that sweated in the heat. 

Crowley, on the picnic blanket that seemed to be increasing in size by the second, stretched out his long legs and leant back. Aziraphale plucked his sunglasses off him, and carefully put them into a pocket. 

“You won’t get the full effect,” was the excuse he gave. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him and stole a meat skewer.

They were just in time: the announcement for the beginning of the display came over the loudspeaker and 20,000 people all clapped politely. Music swelled and the show began.

Fireworks arced upwards from the river into the humid darkness. They flared bright as new galaxies and faded just as fast. Crowley watched them all, his eyes reflecting the shadows and the light, and Aziraphale watched him. 

**Author's Note:**

> The restaurant is Korinbo (香林坊) in Nakano. 
> 
> If you ever get a chance to go to a summer firework festival in Japan then I highly recommend you do so - no words or pictures could ever compare to actually being there. The one in the fic is the Adachi festival.


End file.
